


Post Scriptum

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, vaguely festive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21832837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: The Apocalypse has not happened. The move to the South Downs has. Aziraphale struggles to see Crowley clearly past his enormous praise kink.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 521
Collections: Hot Omens, South Downs Holiday-ish Exchange





	Post Scriptum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spunknbite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunknbite/gifts).



> I believe the prompt was something like "something domestic and fluffy and smutty and soft, maybe with some service top Crowley and praise kink" and I am, as you can see, an uninventive and basic bitch, so here is something domestic and fluffy and smutty and soft with a tiny tiny bit of Christmassiness.

The situation in the kitchen was—there were no two ways about it—a mess. The Yule log Aziraphale had purchased this year, as he had every year since the early nineteenth century, at Fortnum and Mason’s, was a bone of contention between the angel and Crowley: it was, Crowley maintained, abominably sweet. It was so extortionately priced that it may as well have held Aziraphale up at gunpoint and robbed him in an alley. About the only thing the two of them were agreed upon where the confection was concerned was that it did not belong on the kitchen floor: thus, the fact that it now lay, deconstructed, all across the room from sink to cellar-door was mutually accepted to be a Poor State of Affairs Indeed. 

The thing was—well, the thing _was—_

“Oops-a-daisy,” said Aziraphale giddily, and laughed the unconcerned laugh of the blessedly tipsy. “Rather come a cropper, dear boy, that thing.” 

“All over the bloody floor,” Crowley acknowledged, propping himself against the doorframe to survey the damage (easily rectifiable in terms of the floor, although the cake was rather another matter). 

The thing _was,_ when one had finally (finally!) surrendered to millennia of agonised adoration—and subsequently to a copious quantity of booze, in keeping with the humans’ festive season—it took more than a minor kitchen disaster to wreck one’s spirits. So Aziraphale had found, anyway, since he and Crowley (oh, _Crowley_ ) had taken their leave of scattershot London and resettled themselves in the South Downs, in a cottage that was not Aziraphale’s, nor Crowley’s, but _theirs._

It took, Aziraphale was finding, rather a lot these days to dent his sunny disposition. Especially when he had Crowley within arm’s reach, his to embrace and annoy as he wished. His to kiss, even, when wine had rendered him soft-eyed and sentimental, impervious to the world’s minor ills. 

Crowley was always especially kissable, Aziraphale thought, after a few bottles of wine (on both their parts). Now he could admit he’d always thought so; as his inhibitions dropped away, so too did Crowley's concern for his image. His long hands would drift, inevitably, to rake through his hair, leaving it in glorious scarlet disarray, and Aziraphale’s fingers ached to follow in the wake of Crowley's. And he could, now, if he wished: he could let his hands wander over the planes of Crowley’s face; his narrow waist; the spurs of his hipbones where his jeans had ridden low. Aziraphale could _touch._ The fact of it was so incredible, so thrillingly welcome, that Aziraphale kept forgetting it, as if to be able to enjoy the realisation all over again whenever Crowley, soft-eyed and smiling, looked his way. 

Crowley had been looking at him for millennia. Aziraphale was quite finished with pretending not to notice. 

"Never mind," he said, winding his arms around Crowley's neck and leaning into him. "I've another sweetmeat I like even more." 

Crowley rolled his eyes. "That was awful even for you," he said, but there was a blush crawling up his neck out of the open collar of his shirt. 

"Your mouth may tell me lies, my dear, but I'm afraid that lily-white skin can't." 

The blush intensified and Crowley pulled a face, mouth twisting. "I'll lily-white _you."_

"Oh, promises, promises." Aziraphale was warm deep in his chest, flooding with it. He smiled at Crowley, letting it show on his face. "Will you kiss me?"

"Will I--" Crowley leaned in and then, as if by a great effort of will, stopped himself. "The stupid things you ask me, angel." He rubbed his mouth, just barely, against Aziraphale's cheekbone, then set it close to his ear. His breath was warm, and the nape of Aziraphale's neck prickled at it. "I'll do anything you want me to. You know that by now. Kiss you how?"

Aziraphale had, he supposed, pictured something rough and surging, something like a tussle against the door, if he'd thought anything at all, but now the barely-there brush of Crowley's lips against his earlobe was giving him other ideas. Aziraphale had a terrible habit of running with Ideas. 

"Gently," he said, lifting his chin. When Crowley turned his face to comply, Aziraphale caught him by the hair, just firmly enough to make full contact impossible. " _Gently."_

"You're a strange one, aren't you?" Crowley breathed, but Aziraphale didn't miss the shift in his posture, the way he pulled his spine straight as if instinctively, striving for perfection. "Can I touch, or is that _verboten_ too?" 

Aziraphale looked at him consideringly for a moment and then leaned up, lips barely parted, to touch his mouth to Crowley's. A touch was all it was, the faintest whisper of a kiss, but Crowley shivered at the contact, the suggestion of it. 

"By all means," Aziraphale said against his mouth, "touch me. But carefully -- we don't want any more accidents." 

"Teasing doesn't become you," Crowley lied with the sort of shamelessness only a demon could muster. His hand came up, took hold of Aziraphale's jaw, and Aziraphale let his eyes close in bliss, anticipatory. Then: "Can I?" Crowley said, and something clenched, hot and familiar, in Aziraphale's chest. 

He nodded. Crowley kissed him, immediate, tilting Aziraphale's face and taking possession of his open mouth. The kiss had a sort of forward motion to it, a certain velocity, as if it had taken a concerted effort for Crowley to hold himself in check before. Aziraphale felt the strain in him snapping, the doorframe bumping against his spine as Crowley half-lifted him and bore him back against it. He laughed into Crowley's mouth and Crowley drew back, wild-eyed, looking breathless and gorgeous and more than a little cross. This was, Aziraphale thought, absolute essence of Crowley. 

"I thought you wanted me to kiss you?" Crowley said, and Aziraphale smiled, reaching up to touch his face. 

"Perhaps somewhere more....?" Aziraphale began, and Crowley nodded urgently. 

"Anywhere you like," he said, "any _thing_ you like, we can just --" 

He snapped his fingers. Crowley's skills in the arena of autorelocation could be variable, so Aziraphale was pleased to find himself on his own bed, in his own bedroom, with his very own demon beached upon his chest. 

"Forward," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind Crowley's ear. He'd always loved Crowley's hair, the unmistakable colour of it. A flash of vermilion, observed across dance halls and deserts, orgies and oceans. Red for danger, the simplest of codes, and one Aziraphale had never quite mastered. 

"You want it," Crowley growled, all uncertainty finally beaten out of him, and Aziraphale laughed again, letting his thighs fall open so that Crowley could better settle himself between. 

"My darling," he said, "I do. Should we…?" 

Crowley caught his meaning from the shift of his eyes and shook his head, pressing his mouth to the curve of Aziraphale's neck. "Not _drunk,_ just happy. Like it like this. Hmm?" 

"Mmm." Aziraphale arched his back, his hand making a fist in Crowley's hair once more. He pulled, then slid his hand down to palm Crowley's nape, the fine hairs there prickling against his skin. "Will you behave?" 

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes golden and, for once, quite guileless. "Angel," he said, one corner of his mouth lifting, "just tell me how." 

He liked this, sometimes. Aziraphale had learned early on -- if he was truthful with himself, he'd known it millennia ago -- how Crowley yearned for praise; how a kind word could uncurl his defences and reveal, at least for a moment, the soft thing he was inside. A word, a touch. They were free now, but sometimes Crowley still liked an order to obey, provided Aziraphale made it worth his while. 

"Let me see you, then." 

Crowley began to move at once, a flurry of limbs, and Aziraphale cocked his head, chiding. " _Slowly."_

No miracles, Aziraphale meant, which Crowley well knew. The buttons of his waistcoat were to be slipped each by each from their buttonholes; the silly little scrap he wore in place of a tie was to be untied by hand. Crowley sat astride Aziraphale's hips and peeled his garments one at a time from his skinny torso, and Aziraphale smiled, watching the way his chest moved with his breaths, the trembling of his fingers. Belt, then, next: Crowley tossed it to the floor, where it coiled, snakelike, on the rug. Without it, Crowley looked strangely vulnerable, all sharp bones and shallow navel, and Aziraphale reached up to tuck two fingers into his waistband. 

"Allow me, dear." 

"You're killing me," Crowley groaned, but he let his own hands drop, shoulders falling back and hips arching forward. They both knew he would allow Aziraphale anything. 

He was obviously hard, cock trapped tightly against his thigh by the restrictive cut of his jeans. Aziraphale ran his thumb under the trouser button, and thought quite hard until it popped open, the pressure of Crowley's cock serving subsequently to push the zip most of the way down. Crowley drew in a breath, and Aziraphale smiled, cupping him through his underwear where his prick pushed out hotly through a thin layer of cotton. 

"Is that for me?" 

"Of course it's f--oh, _fuck,_ angel." Crowley hissed, caught his lower lip between his teeth and canted his hips, chasing the glancing pressure of Aziraphale's fingers. Aziraphale stroked up the length of him, then pressed his fingertips to the head of Crowley's cock where the fabric was wet with his slick. Crowley jerked spasmodically and Aziraphale took pity, pulling back to press his open hand against everything it could cover. 

"Do you love me?" 

Eyes tight shut, Crowley nodded, flattening his own hand over Aziraphale's. He was beautiful like this, back arched, sweat licking the hollows of his clavicle. A string pulled desperately taut, waiting to be plucked. Aziraphale, gently, withdrew his hand; took hold of Crowley by the hips instead, thumbs tracing the promontories of his pelvis. 

"Show me, then," said Aziraphale, soft, and Crowley shivered, then surged. 

This time, his kiss was all hunger, a fierce, rapacious thing that set Aziraphale's hips lifting from the mattress at once. Crowley's tongue traced the curve of Aziraphale's lower lip, then ventured further, and Aziraphale sucked it into his mouth with a groan, clutching at Crowley's shoulder blades. He was overhot, sweating, and the rabbit bones of his spine slid under Aziraphale's fingers as he followed them down to the small of Crowley's back, the loose waistband of his open jeans. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley breathed in his ear. Aziraphale writhed, baring his neck, and gasped his gratitude when Crowley kissed him, then set his teeth there. 

"Darling," he said, "that's -- oh, your mouth -- that's gorgeous, _harder._ Make your mark on me, love." 

" _Aziraphale,"_ Crowley repeated, thin with desperation, and Aziraphale took pity on him, dispatching their clothes with a (rather flustered) thought. 

At that, Crowley seemed to lose what little shreds of restraint he had retained. Aziraphale had never thought his corporation especially _un_ lovely, but Crowley's immoderate reaction to it never ceased to astonish and thrill him. Crowley groped across his hips, palmed his flanks with nothing short of single-minded adoration, his mouth all the while at work on Aziraphale's throat, drawing the blood to the surface in the shape of his bite. His prick was hot and stiff in the crease of Aziraphale's thigh, bumping against his own as Crowley moved, and when he reached Aziraphale's chest, he gathered lush palmfuls of it, lifting his head as if to drink it all in. 

"Have you any idea," Crowley said, breathless, "how fucking gorgeous -- still can't believe you're letting me --" 

"I _want_ you to," Aziraphale corrected, pushing his hand once more into the thick of Crowley's hair. "I _ask_ you to, and you're so good to me, darling; I want you so much. Crowley --" 

He arched his back, tugged at Crowley's hair, and Crowley moved at once to follow the unspoken order, lowering his mouth to Aziraphale's chest. He nipped at it, nuzzled; he rubbed the flat of his hot cheek against one peaked nipple and shuddered when Aziraphale spread his thighs and moaned. His tongue followed, and Aziraphale clutched at his hair and cried out, pushing his chest against Crowley's mouth. Crowley's other hand was still groping and petting at him, and the thrill of it went straight to Aziraphale's cock, making him stiffen and slick. 

"Oh, my darling," he managed, "that's lovely; you're so lovely to me. Your mouth, will you--" 

"Suck you?" Crowley croaked, eyes glittering, as he raised his head. He looked so earnest and hopeful that Aziraphale almost blushed at what was actually in his mind, then raised an eyebrow, and Crowley, to his eternal surprise, blushed too. 

"Fuck," he said, and then his hand was between Aziraphale's legs, seeking out the secret skin below his balls, knuckling at his perineum. Aziraphale spread his thighs further, his prick curved up hard against his belly, and Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, caught his breath. "D'you want -- can I --?" 

"Put your tongue in me," Aziraphale said, barely a whisper. "Please?" 

"Buggering hell and all its damned dominions," said Crowley, strangled, "as if I'd say no to _that._ Fuck _me,_ bloody hell. _Angel."_

"Well!" Aziraphale protested, still rather pink, and tugged at Crowley's hair again. 

"You're gonna be the death of me," Crowley said, and shouldered in between his legs. 

Crowley had called him a hedonist, more than once, and when Aziraphale felt the first flickers of Crowley's tongue, he thought he surely must be one, and that probably it wasn't something to be proud of; but also that he couldn't do much at the moment but congratulate himself on excellent choices made. The slick curl of Crowley's tongue against him, opening him, was a sensation all its own; and Crowley clearly loved it almost as much as Aziraphale did, gripping handfuls of his thighs and opening him further, far enough to crook his tongue inside. Aziraphale's hips jerked reflexively, canting upward, and Crowley groaned; sucked at him; crowded himself as close to Aziraphale as he could get. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale panted, a complete thought in itself: "Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Ah!" 

Two of Crowley's fingers, miraculously wet, slipped in alongside his tongue, curving and rubbing at his prostate, and Aziraphale could _feel_ the pulse of precome from his slit in response, the muscles in his thighs clenching. 

"Yes," he wrenched out, "yes, that's, you're so -- oh, come up here and fuck me this instant, before I --" 

What the alternative was, Crowley appeared not to want to find out, which was fortunate because Aziraphale hadn't the wherewithal to come up with anything before Crowley was in his arms again, his prick dragging wetly against Aziraphale's stomach and his tongue in Aziraphale's mouth. He was whimpering, his lithe body a sort of personified tremble, and Aziraphale took pity on him, reaching between their stomachs to take hold of his cock. 

Crowley hissed at this, fucking into Aziraphale's hand, and Aziraphale shushed him, kissed his ear and stroked his thumb through the well of Crowley's slick, circling the sensitive slit. 

"There you are," he crooned, "there's my love. I've got you. I'm here." 

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, despairing, and Aziraphale lifted his hips, positioned Crowley's cock between his legs where he was wet, still, from Crowley's tongue; and wetter now on the miraculous strength of Aziraphale's desire. 

"Come on, darling -- like this, _please,_ I want you, I love you so much, you're so good to me -- _Crowley --"_

Crowley's hips snapped forward as if by accident and they cried out together, Aziraphale's fingers pressing bruises into the sparse flesh of Crowley's back. 

"Angel," Crowley breathed against him, "is it all right? Am I -- " 

"You're perfect." Aziraphale's fingers combed soft through Crowley's hair. His back arched, instinctive; his thighs splayed wide around Crowley's hips, making room for him. They didn't do it this way often, but now Aziraphale couldn't remember why at all. Crowley's hips churned, slow, and the thick pressure of him inside seemed to light fires everywhere Aziraphale's consciousness could reach, all through his body and somehow out into the room beyond. He was entirely possessed by Crowley and yet, at the same time, Crowley was his to his very atoms, to the bones of him. 

"More," Aziraphale said, when he could. "Darling -- _more."_

Crowley's hips moved immediately, his pace quickening. Like this, Aziraphale could feel the reverberating smack of their bodies making contact, the drag of Crowley's stomach against his leaking cock, and when Crowley said, breathless, "Like that?" he could only clutch at him, say _yes_ and _yes_ and _yes._

"You know I love you," Crowley said, his face against Aziraphale's throat and his hips moving wildly, jackhammering into him. "I've always loved you, always -- angel --" 

"Oh, God," Aziraphale said, blasphemy and a prayer combined, and came, his body clenching around Crowley like a fist. 

He sensed, rather than felt, Crowley follow: there was a curious ringing in his ears and the heat of Crowley's come pulsing inside him was a secondary sensation, under and around the bliss that was throbbing through him in little aftershocks. Crowley collapsed onto his elbows, and Aziraphale made himself move enough to pull him down, curling a heavy hand through his sweat-damp hair. 

"Was that all right?" Crowley, absurdly, said, and Aziraphale smiled without opening his eyes, kissing the top of his head. 

"Marvellous," he said, and then, deciding the word was too potentially flippant, "you were marvellous, darling. I feel wonderful. All warm, and -- and floaty, and glad you're mine, dear." 

Crowley made a small sound, a sort of trill in the back of his throat which he would, of course, deny if challenged. But Aziraphale knew better than to challenge. Better to kiss his demon's sweaty forehead, and stroke his hair, and wait for Crowley to say of his own accord, "Yours." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
